“You showed up. You stayed. That says it all.”
He shrugs,
plucking a piece of pulp from my hair.
“And for the record? You held your own.
“That’s class, sweetheart."
He finds my hip,
and he gives it a soft squeeze.
“Seriously,” he says.
“Most people swing low when they’re hit.
“You didn’t even blink.”
Then the first chord ofAngelrips the floor out from under me?—
a bullet aimed straight at my chest.
My eyes snap back to the stage,
where Andrew’s wringing it all out,
one hand crushing the neck of his guitar,
every note of the riff dragged out in torment.
As if he’s saying,please, look at me again.
And the song grabs me,
a hand to the throat,
slamming me up against the wall,
then kissing the fuck out of me.
My chest tightens so hard that I grab it,
my fingertips press against bone to hold my heart back.
A burn flares behind my eyes,
and my body seizes,
like I swallowed a scream,
and it’s punching to get out.
One tear tries to escape,
tries to slip past everything I’ve built.
Fuck.I kill it before it leaves my eye.
